


Sphere Theory

by GoddessofBirth



Series: Factoring Out Binomials [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Even angsty boys have happy times, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, Holidays, Inspired by Fanart, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:30:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Isaac visit a pumpkin patch, perform covert night maneuvers, and almost get busted.  Set during the college years of "Factoring Out Binomials".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sphere Theory

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Teen Wolf Reverse Bang, from the lovely art of Genni, found here: http://ohthehumanityy.livejournal.com/4298.html. Please give her some love for her adorable depictions! Technically this falls in the "Factoring Out Binomials" 'verse, but it can be read pretty easily as a stand alone as well.

It's freezing, legitimately freezing, and for half a second Stiles questions why the hell he's standing in a pumpkin field, bundled up in a pea coat and wearing the douchiest of douchebag scarves ever. Then an arm wraps across his middle, while another reaches around him, holding a cup of steaming something, and a chin comes to rest on his shoulder.

“No pumpkin chai, but they did have pumpkin cappuccino. And pumpkin tea. And pumpkin hot chocolate. You get the picture.”

Ah. Right. That's why he's here, happily freezing his ass off, when he could be warm and cozy underneath the covers and wrapped around a warm body. Because said warm body is currently handing him hot liquid heaven. Because said warm body is currently nuzzling into his neck, with his curls tickling the skin of Stiles' cheek. Because he'd never quite seen the kind of look on Isaac's face as he had when Isaac walked down the stairs that first Halloween he'd lived at the Stilinskis', and seen Stiles and his dad sitting in the living room, boxes of decorations spread around them.

Christmas had been the same - the sheer surprise and joy on Isaac's face, as he'd sat next to Stiles and pulled out strings of lights and tacky little Santa Clauses and the grapevine wreath Stiles' mom had made the year she'd died. And when they'd gone to pick out a tree...

Stiles had ended up dragging Isaac behind old Mr. Tiller's shop so that he could lick his way inside Isaac's mouth and taste the blinding grin on his face.

Holidays, it turns out, were not much of an occasion in the Lahey household. Stiles doesn't know why it surprises him, knowing what he knows of the things that happened to Isaac there – things so much worse than he'd known or suspected in their early days together – but it does. Holidays are a given at the Stilinski house, entrenched enough that he and his father had carried on, even after his mother's death, even during those few years their celebration brought as much sadness as joy. Stiles loves the holidays, but Isaac fucking lights up at the smallest celebration ritual, and it's enough for Stiles to refuse to let a single one drop, even if they _are_ stuck in a dorm, and penniless, and it's fucking five degrees Fahrenheit. 

Isaac pulls the collar of Stiles' shirt to the side and presses his lips to his collarbone, then slips in front of him, and, hands in pockets, wraps the sides of his jacket around Stiles. His face tucks into the crook of Stiles' neck, and he traces his tongue in a slow circle around his pulse point. There's a female sounding catcall from somewhere to their right, but Stiles doesn't care, because he's suddenly surrounded by a bubble of Isaac warmth, his cappuccino nestled between them.

“Sometimes, I resent your werewolf warmth advantage. I bet you don't really even need that coat.”

Isaac snorts. “It's freakin' cold, Stiles. I don't run _that_ much warmer.”

Maybe not, but it's enough, and they both know Stiles actually loves it; Isaac stays there until Stiles' shivering stops and he turns to catch Isaac's mouth in a kiss – full of tongue and over in seconds. A pumpkin patch is no place to get arrested for public indecency.

“Come on,” Isaac finally says, stepping back and wrapping Stiles' scarf more securely around his neck. “Let's find this thing.”

* * * * * * * * * * 

The pumpkin is all the way on the far side of the field, and Stiles knows it's the reason none of the other, normal ones, had seemed just right. They circle it warily, carefully, and then Stiles breathes out, “This is the one.”

It's monstrous, and ugly as fuck – it looks normal from the front, but the back is a mess of bumps and scars – and it's utterly, utterly perfect.

“Come on, Stiles, no. We can't. It'll take up the whole room. And how are we gonna get it in the dorm anyway? We're not even supposed to have them in the first place.”

Stiles ignores his words, just like he does when Isaac slips into douchetastic mode, and answers the look in his eyes, instead. Because that look is all longing. Isaac wants the damn pumpkin just as much as Stiles does; he's just afraid of getting in trouble, and the idea of trouble still pulls a knee jerk reaction of fear, even after all this time. 

“We'll keep it in the jeep until Robert -” the most asshole of all R.A.'s in existence - “goes to sleep. Almost everyone's gone for fall break anyway. And it's not like he does room checks.” Robert is also the laziest R.A. in existence. “So once we get it in, we're gold! And who needs room? We only use the beds anyway. It'll fit right between them.”

“We can't carve it...” Isaac offers, but Stiles can see he's wavering. It really is an awesome pumpkin.

“Pssht, carving is so 2000s. We, babe, are gonna plunder the art building, and paint this bad boy's face on.”

He sits on the pumpkin, hooks his fingers through through Isaac's belt loops, and tugs him between his legs. He rests his forehead against Isaac's stomach. “Come on, babe. Look at how sad he is out here, all by himself. Let's take him home with us and give him some love.

Isaac snorts and brings his hands up to cradle the back of Stiles' head and tug at the ends of his hair. “Yeah, until it rots, and we cram it in a dumpster somewhere.”

“Cycle of life, baby. Cycle of life.”

“Stiles...”

“Nope, no more excuses. He's coming home with us and that's that. He peeks up at Isaac underneath his lashes. “Yeah?”

Isaac sighs and rolls his eyes, but a tiny smirk creeps across his face. “Yeah.”

* * * * * * * 

It turns out they get Melvin – the name Stiles enthusiastically gifts their pumpkin with on the thirty minute trek across the field to the barn-turned-checkout station – for a steal. Seems the farmer hadn't expected anyone to _want_ Melvin. Had thought Melvin would just rot in the field. Which, Stiles thinks, just goes to show what poor taste the rest of the world has. Regardless, the cappuccino they bought costs more than the pumpkin, and Isaac straps him carefully into the back of the jeep before they take off back to campus. 

Stiles kindly pretends not to notice him give Melvin a gentle pat before he climbs in the passenger seat.

Melvin stays hidden under a blanket in the jeep for the remainder of the afternoon and evening. Isaac heads up to their dorm room to start clearing space, while Stiles makes a covert run to the art building and returns, forty minutes later, lugging a plastic trash bag of plundered supplies. He drops the bag on one of the beds and sits down behind Isaac, scooting up until he can wrap his legs around him.

“Looks good,” he mumbles into the back of his neck. Really, it's probably the first time he's seen the floor of their dorm this semester. But he's less concerned about that than stripping off his jacket and scarf, and then the plaid button up and his Henley, until he's finally down to short sleeves and he can slip his arms around Isaac and feel bare skin against skin. He rubs the side of his face against Isaac's and links their fingers together. Isaac's cheek shifts against his as his mouth curls into a half grin.

“I have my uses.”

“See, and I know you're waiting for me to say something dirty here, but I'm totally not giving you the satisfaction.”

He also knows Isaac is smirking when he shoves back with his legs and topples the both of them over, then flips around so that he's straddling Stiles as he pins him to the floor. He ducks down to take the hem of Stiles' t-shirt between his teeth and then drags it up his torso, until it's rucked up beneath his underarms. Then Isaac dips his head and noses at his mark; scrapes his teeth over it. He must find it too faded for his liking, because he frowns and then latches his mouth over it, sucks hard and deep as one of his hands wanders down from Stiles' wrist to his nipple. He flicks it with his thumbnail and shifts until one of his legs is between Stiles'.

Stiles' fingers tangle in Isaac's hair as he arches into the gentle rocking motion of Isaac's thigh and his eyes flutter shut.

“ _Isaac_.”

There's the curve of lips against his skin as Isaac finishes refreshing his mark, then completes the task of removing Stiles' shirt. His expression is happy and satisfied as he examines his work. Stiles has work of his own to do; he tugs at the bottom of Isaac's tee.

“Off,” he orders, “Off, off, off, off, _off_.” 

Isaac raises one eyebrow and nips at Stiles' lip. “Impatient fucker,” he laughs, his breath warm across Stiles' mouth.

“Hell yes. Naked me plus naked you...is there some reason we should put that off?”

Isaac snickers and shakes his head, reaches over his shoulder to grab the back of his shirt and pull it off. “Hell no,” he echoes back.

Stiles tugs him down, and they commence to making good use of their new newly clean floor. When they're done, when they've dragged themselves up into the bed and wrapped blankets in a tight cocoon around them, Isaac buries his face in Stiles' neck and says quietly, “Thanks. For Melvin.”

Stiles tries his best not to look smug with the giddy pleasure he always gets from making Isaac happy, but from the way Isaac teasingly pops the back of his head and rolls his eyes, he's not sure he succeeds.

* * * * * *

The search and rescue mission for Melvin commences at promptly 0:45 hundred hours. Stiles votes they wear ski masks, just to make it official, but Isaac vetoes it under the annoyingly rational reason that ski masks might make them _conspicuous_ or some such other ridiculous notion. The parking lot is dark and quiet and covered with a thin sheen of ice. They slip and slide to the jeep – proving, once again, that werewolf dexterity is no match for slippery surfaces – and manage to get Melvin hefted out of the back.

Everything runs smooth and according to their meticulously laid plans (and by meticulous, he means they spent a good fifteen minutes sort of talking about it as they lay in bed, in between lazy kisses and touches, right up until they get distracted by Isaac running his tongue across the scar on Stiles' hip. But still, they _had_ planned. Maybe.)

Regardless, everything goes well, through the first and second flights of stairs, even though Stiles is sucking wind at the third floor landing. They take a break there, putting Melvin down, and Stiles slides to the floor beside him.

“Why are we avoiding the elevator again?” he wheezes.

“Because we'd never know who might be waiting behind the doors when they slide open. Something _you_ pointed out, by the way.”

“Right, right, right.” He stands up and bends over at the waist, taking in a deep breath. “Smart. That was smart. I'm a smart guy.”

Isaac opens his mouth, probably to retort with something fittingly smart ass, but then he freezes. His head cocks to the side and his nose goes up in the air, and after a second, his eyes widen in panic.

“What? What is it? Stiles looks around wildly, waiting for danger to materialize.

“It's Robert! Robert's just opened the door from our floor to the stairwell!”

“No. No, no, no. He's asleep. He's supposed to be asleep. Are you sure?”

Isaac gives him a look. “Of course I'm sure! I could smell his freakin' aftershave ten miles away, even if I couldn't hear him.” And then, Stiles can hear it, too, heavy footfalls echoing down the shaft; two sets, he thinks.

“What are we gonna do?” Isaac hisses. There's no way they can make it back down the stairs with Melvin, not before Robert catches up.

“Just...just...pick 'im up!” They heft the pumpkin and Stiles uses his back to depress the bar lever of the door. They stumble through onto the third floor – thankfully deserted – and lean against the wall, panting.

“Okay, okay. This is good. We can just wait and -” Stiles doesn't get the sentence out before Isaac claps a hand over his mouth, eyes still wide.

“They're stopping on the landing. Shit. Shit, shit. They've gotta be coming to this floor! Go, go, go!”

They look around wildly. There's dorm rooms, but no telling whose stayed over the holiday. Oh, but -

Stiles jerks his head toward a door six feet or so down the hall. “Supply closet.” They huff and shuffle and Stiles balances Melvin on his knee as he attempts to open the door. Only, of course... “Locked.”

Isaac just gives him a crazy eyed look as he mimics Stiles by balancing Melvin on one knee and then reaches past Stiles to grab the door handle. He jerks down hard and there's a loud crack as the entire locking mechanism snaps.

“Oh, sure,” Stiles huffs, “If you want to be all werewolf about it.” Isaac gives him another look as they scramble inside, barely getting the door closed before they hear Robert's voice in the hall. Melvin takes up most of the space in the closet, and Isaac is stuck by the door, holding it closed because of the broken latch; as soon as they set the pumpkin down, Stiles scrambles over its top to stand in front of him. The lack of space makes it a tricky endeavor, and they end up face to face, noses a scant six inches apart. 

Stiles cocks his head to the side and listens as Robert and his unknown companion make their way down the hall, pass the supply closet, and disappear around the corner. Only they don't. Disappear that is. Instead, just as they pass the door, their footsteps stutter and slow, and John Doe launches into a rather lengthy defense of why it's perfectly okay for him to be boning a girl whose dorm floor is under his jurisdiction. Stiles would be impressed with his circuitous logic under other circumstances, but right now he's only impressed with how much the universe obviously hates him, because an argument immediately starts up, which promises to be lengthy.

“Oh my _god_ ,” he mouths to Isaac, gritting his teeth and banging his head against Isaac's collarbone. It's stuffy as hell in the closet, and he can already feel a thin sheen of sweat breaking out under his multiple layers of clothing. It might be cooler if he moved away from Isaac's body heat, but it's a thought to which he gives no real consideration.

He stares at Isaac, at the sharp cut of his cheekbones visible in the light filtering underneath the door, at the mop of curls on his head – both of their hair has gotten a little out of control without his dad around to remind them to cut it – and at the lush bow of his lips. He looks resigned to waiting things out, or at least he's tamped his earlier unease down, and he shrugs at Stiles and leans his head back against the door.

It hits Stiles then, that a couple of years ago, they were afraid of being killed by kitsuane or kanimas or werewolves, or that Derek might find Isaac alone. And while Isaac's particular issues still hang heavy around them, the daily life or death panics of Beacon Hills are now far, far away, and asshole resident advisers are the things from which they're reduced to hiding. It's suddenly so funny that he slaps his hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. Maybe Isaac realizes the same thing, too, because a slow, wide grin breaks out over his face. Stiles grins back and whispers-

“Hi.”

Isaac smile grows big enough that he gets crinkles around the corners of his eyes. “Hey.”

Outside the door, the muted voices of Robert and John Doe continue discussing the ethical soundness of dating freshmen, while Stiles rests his chin in the crook of Isaac's neck. Isaac's free hand slips underneath the back of his t-shirt, beneath his jacket and hoodie and rests there, and for a long minute they just breathe, locked together in this thing that's them.

But only for one long minute, because standing still is boring, especially when he's pressed up tight against the long, lean length of Isaac's body. There are so many better things he could be doing with that body. He looks over his shoulder at Melvin, does a rough calculation in his head – and yep, that could work. He pulls away from from Isaac and winks as he sheds his coat.

By the time he sits down on Melvin and hooks his finger in Isaac's waistband, Isaac is already giving him that look that says he knows Stiles is about to do something stupid and dangerous and likely to get them busted. Well, nobody could say they aren't experts in reading each other these days.

Stiles pops the button of Isaac's jeans.

“Stiles!” Isaac hisses, batting at his hand.

Stiles brings his finger to his lips and pantomimes _quiet_. The sound of Isaac's zipper coming down is loud in the dark quiet of the closet, and they both freeze, listening. But the argument outside goes on unchecked, and Stiles shimmies Isaac's pants off his hips.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Isaac says again, and this time it's less warning and more encouraging. His free hand comes up to cup the back of Stiles' head, and he can see Isaac growing harder as he watches.

He grins up at Isaac, a mischievous curl to his lip. “Shhh...they'll hear you. And remember, don't let go of the door handle.” That's all the warning he gives Isaac before he slides his hands to his hips and takes him in his mouth. He's still soft enough that Stiles can take him down to the root; it won't last long, but Stiles makes the most of it, licks and sucks and wraps his tongue over every bit of Isaac's dick.

He can still vividly remember the first time he ever did this to Isaac, can definitely recall every detail of the first time Isaac did this to _him_. And although he likes to think they've gotten more skilled as time passes – four years is a long time to learn all the different ways to bring each other off – the thrill of it, the way Isaac's whole body stiffens and the way Stiles' eyes roll back in his head at the way he tastes and looks, has never changed.

Soon enough, Isaac's fully hard, and Stiles has to pull back to keep from gagging. Deep throating is still a skill he's yet to master, even though God knows Isaac has – Jesus fuck has he ever. The thought has Stiles pressing the heel of his hand against his own dick, growing uncomfortably hard in the confines of his jeans as he licks up the underside of Isaac's length and trips his tongue through his slit. 

Isaac's hand jerks tight in his hair and then disappears altogether. When Stiles looks up, Isaac is biting into his palm to stifle the throaty noises slipping from his mouth, and his eyes are glowing sulfur yellow in the shadowed darkness. Stiles' hips fuck up into empty air at the sight at the same time Isaac's buck forward helplessly; Stiles loses his battle with silence and moans around Isaac, digging his fingers into his ass to hold him still as he lightly drags his teeth along the underside of his dick. There's no shout of discovery, though, and the door isn't yanked open, so Stiles ducks his head and noses at Isaac's balls.

He licks and mouths and tastes, so that by the time he turns his attention back to Isaac's dick, they're a wet, sloppy mess, and Isaac is breathing in short, jerky gasps above him. His hand is back in Stiles' hair, compulsively clenching and unclenching, and when Stiles wraps his lips tight around him there's the scuffle of shoes against the floor as Isaac's whole body strains up and out. Faintly, Stiles can still hear Robert and John Doe, but they're just white noise at this point and he can't quite remember why he was listening for them anyway. What he _can_ remember is how much he wants Isaac to come; how Isaac's pleasure is as much an addiction for him as it's ever been, and he concentrates every thought on that goal.

Wet noises fill the small room, obscene and dirty, and now Isaac is trembling, pushed up on his tiptoes and back to biting his palm. Lust snakes its way up Stiles' spine as he trails his fingers around and in between Isaac's balls, saliva coating the tips of them. He wants to tumble Isaac down and fuck him. He wants Isaac on his knees and his mouth on his dick. He wants to take Isaac somewhere he can stop biting his fucking hand and make all the sounds Stiles loves to hear. But first...first this.

He curls wet fingers down the crack of Isaac's ass and circles Isaac's hole; presses the tip of one finger firm against the tight ring of muscle. He massages slow and steady, gets a string of whimpers for his efforts, and tastes a spurt of pre-cum on the back of his tongue. When Isaac starts scrabbling at his hair again, fingers uncoordinated and searching, Stiles knows he's right at the brink.

He pulls off his dick just long enough to breath, “Come on, babe,” then takes him as deep in his mouth as he can. At the same time, his finger finally breaches Isaac's hole, and he pushes just the tip in, twisting his hand as he goes. For a few seconds, there's nothing but the sound of Isaac's breathing growing louder and louder, like he's panicking, like he's dying, and then he's moaning out a low _Stiiiles_. His hips jerk and cum fills Stiles' mouth, hot and salty and an acquired taste he has definitely acquired. He doesn't swallow quite fast enough and a thin line escapes to trickle down his chin. It's okay; Isaac will just lick him clean anyway.

Isaac's muscles finally unlock, and he slumps hard against the door. Stiles keeps a hand on his hip, props him up as he carefully pulls his finger from his body and lets Isaac's cock slip from between his lips. He presses his face into Isaac's hip and nips him lightly.

“Fuck,” Isaac groans. “ _Fuck_.” He freezes for half a second, then tilts his head to the side, listening. “Oh. They're gone.”

Stiles tucks Isaac back into his pants and does them up before catching sight of Isaac's hand, still clenched tight around the door handle. A laugh bubbles up. “Dude. I can't believe you managed to keep that closed the whole time.”

Isaac blinks at him, looks at his hand, and then they're both laughing, loud howls that have them bent at the middle and holding their bellies. “Jesus, Stiles.” Isaac shakes his head through his giggles. “I can't believe you did that, you idiot.”

“This from the guy who went down on me in the Beacon Hills locker room? Please.”

Isaac shakes his head again, then tugs on Stiles' shirt sleeve. “Come here.”

Stiles lets him pull him to his feet. Isaac nuzzles his neck before kissing him leisurely. He pulls back to teethe at Stiles' bottom lip, then hums low in the back of his throat as he licks at his chin and the underside of his jaw. “I like when you taste like me.” It's Stiles' turn to whimper, and Isaac drops his hand to cup him through his jeans.

“Let's get Melvin upstairs so we can do something with this, yeah?”

Stiles does not argue.

* * * * * * * * * * 

They get Melvin into their room without being seen, lock the door, and spend the next few hours fucking just as loud as they want. The benefit of being two of the only people to stay on campus over the break is that there's no neighbors to bang on their walls and complain, and they take full advantage of that fact.

The next day they paint Melvin, and Stiles uses his phone to snap a photo and send it to his dad.

A week later they get busted when Robert performs an unscheduled room check and receive an official notice to remove Melvin or risk fines. Isaac frowns and pats Melvin and goes to put his shoes on for a dumpster run. Stiles takes the notice, balls it up, and throws it in the trash. Melvin stays.

They spend the next two weeks being fined at a rate of $5 a day, until Melvin finally collapses on one side from rot. They carry his remains out of the dorm and hold an appropriate funeral at the trash bin.

The fines are worth it.


End file.
